


Impossible

by teprometo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Mpreg, Skepticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:27:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is obviously pregnant, but try convincing him of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> I want to blame sorrylatenew for this fic, but it is entirely my fault. I had to go and run my mouth on Twitter about how hilarious this scenario would be and accidentally a fic. The best part is that this little gem may be my only contribution to Sherlock fandom. We'll see about that.

“Shouldn’t we, er....” John is never sure how to broach this topic, and he doesn’t particularly care to, but Sherlock’s constant shifting about is making him all too aware of the growing predicament.

“I mean, we should try to figure out...” John tries again, but Sherlock is in a mood, has been for ages, and he doesn’t want to aggravate the condescending monster lying in wait.

“Oh, stop mumbling, John,” Sherlock huffs from his position on the sofa. His dressing gown hardly covers him, and he stuffs a pillow under his back. “You know how that tries me.”

“It looks to be about time, is all,” is what John finally decides on. He thinks it’s suitably subtle.

“Time for tea? Quite right. Mrs. Hudson!”

Too subtle, apparently. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“There’s nothing else you could mean,” Sherlock says, pulling the pillow back out from under his back and turning over onto his side. “It’s about time. Time for what? Time for tea.”

“Time to prepare you for surgery,” John says with a pointed look.

Sherlock hefts himself off the sofa and moves to the armchair.

“Surgery? No, no. Nothing of the sort. I’ve not been ill in years, and I certainly don’t require any invasive procedures.”

John flips shut his laptop and turns to face Sherlock fully. He’s whiter than usual, his limbs ghastly thin, his cheeks gone hollow. “Sherlock, when are you going to accept that you’ll need a caesarean? You’re not going to deliver in the traditional way,” John says, pausing to consider. “Not that there is a traditional way for this particular condition.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock says, fingers gripping the arms of the chair. “For one to become pregnant, one requires fallopian tubes, a uterus, ovaries, ova, introduction of semen often but not always via intercourse, and as I have none of those things—believe me, John, I’ve seen my x-rays—there is no possible way I could be ... pregnant.” He says the last word like it tastes bad.

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, you’re the size of a Smart Car.”

“Bloating. Obviously.”

“Sherlock,” John says with a warning in his voice—a warning Sherlock promptly waves off as he relocates to the sofa.

“Do shut up and fetch me that tea.”


End file.
